Читать книгу F - Mei Zhi - Страница 9
ОглавлениеIn early November, the Ministry of Public Security summoned me. This time I was taken directly to reception. Immediately I mentioned the person’s name at the wicket, there was a phone call. A woman in her thirties came out and identified me instantly. She led me to a visiting room. The first thing she said was ‘You’ve not changed, you’re the same as ever.’ I wondered why I couldn’t place her. Then I realised, there were all sorts of ways she could study me.
A short fat cadre emerged. He intoned, ‘On the basis of your behaviour over the last few years, we have reached a final verdict.’ He handed me a sheet, sixteenmo size, printed in conspicuous type with the words ‘No indictment to be laid’. Underneath was my original name, birthplace, and work unit. It said I was a professional writer belonging to the Chinese Writers’ Association who had been detained in 1955 for joining Hu Feng’s counter-revolutionary clique. Before that I had helped Hu Feng with July, Hope, and Hope Press. Later, I had helped transcribe the 300,000-word memo, which is why I was considered a core member of the clique. Because I had behaved well in custody, a decision had been taken not to charge me.
Inwardly I felt distaste, like eating sour fruit, yet I also felt our troubles were heading for resolution.
They watched me, as if expecting me to say something. I said, ‘Where would I have acquired such ability, you overestimate me. But I sincerely thank the Party for its magnanimity, in future I will strengthen my ideological remoulding.’
‘Don’t let up on your remoulding. We’re confident you can succeed. Help Hu Feng stabilise his position.’
The woman comrade added, ‘He’s stubborn. He hasn’t admitted his guilt. If he doesn’t do so, we’ll have to use other methods.’ I listened in terror. The comrade in charge brought out two bundles from behind the sofa and said, ‘These are your old manuscripts, which we confiscated.’
The woman comrade said, ‘Check whether any are missing. Then sign.’
I didn’t bother to untie them. I just flicked through them and signed. Not without emotion, I said, ‘I’ve long since given up on all that, I no longer intend to do literary work.’
Adopting a severe attitude, the comrade in charge said, ‘Such thinking is incorrect. Through ideological remoulding, you can serve the people even better. Try harder.’
I realised that what I had said was wrong under the circumstances. Luckily, they weren’t in charge of my case, or I would have got a telling off. All I could do was smile bitterly.
Back home, I read through the decision not to indict me. I knew nothing about the law, but I knew that it would not be of the slightest use to me. Even the Constitution could be amended at will. I remember how happy F had been the first time he got a copy of the Constitution and how he had given an unfinalised manuscript version to our elder son. He said, ‘Now our country has a Constitution. Everything has to be done according to the Constitution. Make sure you study it well.’ Who would have thought that in 1955 first Pan Hannian and then Hu Feng would be locked up and that the Constitution would be disregarded? Where on earth could I find legal evidence? Although I had been locked up for years and constantly interrogated, I was grateful to them for dealing with me so leniently. But as soon as they mentioned Hu Feng, the tone became threatening. What did they intend to do with him?
In the afternoon, Old Liu from the local police station came to see me. He didn’t often come, but he used to call in before every festival. He was extremely courteous. He wanted me to report on the other residents and especially visitors. Apparently that was my responsibility, since I lived on the ground floor. Not long before, he had told me to attend a meeting to hear a report on the general election. He seemed to trust me. In 1961, after my release, I took part in the third general election. By then, my civil rights had been restored.
After we had exchanged conventional greetings, he pulled a long face (this was new) and said, ‘We’re to deal with you from now on. In future, report regularly to us. We will set up a study class for you people.’
I almost jumped from my seat. ‘They said I wouldn’t be indicted. Has my freedom not been restored?’
‘Not indicting you doesn’t mean there’s no problem. You’re still wearing a counter-revolutionary hat.’
‘I’m still wearing a hat?’ I unconsciously touched my head.
‘That’s right, you still have to earn its removal by ideological remoulding.’
I didn’t dare say a word. I was like a deflated ball. I collapsed into my chair.
‘I’ve come to tell you to take part in the class we’re organising for people like you. Attend the police station the day after tomorrow, in the afternoon.’
He left without saying goodbye. How come it was suddenly even more serious than when I was under detention, how come they had put a hat on me? How could I live here in future? Wouldn’t people stab me in the back and curse me as a ‘counter- revolutionary’? There were some mischievous young people in the block who had broken a window and run off. When I complained, they said their father was a factory leader, or the leader of a mass organisation, or some such. They told me to mind my own business. If they got to know my status, they would throw dirt at me. The more I thought about it, the more frightened I became. I even thought of writing to the Ministry of Public Security and asking them to lock me up again, for the rest of my life.
I had exchanged a five-room one-storey house for my three ground-floor rooms. Initially, I had thought it was nice and quiet, but now I found it cold and desolate. I felt like bursting into tears. But I couldn’t. The window gave out onto the street. I couldn’t risk attracting people’s suspicion. That could have made things a lot worse. I sat there thinking miserable thoughts, tears dripping down onto my jacket.
It was Saturday, so my son arrived home early. When he saw me sitting there, he said:
‘Has something happened?’
‘No, I’m just not feeling very well.’
I didn’t have the courage to tell him. I longed to share my misery with him, to take him in my arms and cry, but that would have been cruel. I couldn’t burden his spirit once again with my troubles. He should be like a normal child, free of worries.
I went into the kitchen. Every Saturday, I used to cook him something special. Usually he would breakfast at home and eat lunch at school – rice with vegetables, re-heated. Only in the evening did we eat proper food, hot and relatively nutritious.
I cooked a smoked ribbonfish, which I had learned how to do from Mrs Jin upstairs. She was a southerner, so we had that in common. We became good neighbours. Being busy with the cooking took my mind off things, and I gradually calmed down. Then, Big Sister Ying suddenly turned up. I was even more delighted than the previous time. It was like meeting your loved one, your bosom friend.
We had known each other for 30 years, but when she came to the house in the past it had been to chat with F. I would make tea or pass round cigarettes and say the odd word, but we had never had a deep conversation. Now, she had come to see me, she had become my friend. How could I not rejoice? The sight of her big broad face and thick lips, the sound of her gruff voice sent a warm current through me. Our shared unhappy lot brought us even closer.
‘I’ve come straight from work,’ she announced with a smile. ‘So, have you been back to see Hu Feng?’
‘Let’s wait until we’ve eaten, then we can take our time over it.’ I didn’t want the grim story to spoil our appetite.
My son had hidden away in his room to do his homework. That was even better, because we could talk uninhibitedly.
I told her everything, especially today’s sudden change. I also told her about my misfortune and misgivings. She was surprised, but she was more experienced than I was, and she said, ‘That’s not important, it’s a formality. We’ve all worn hats and then had them taken off. It will probably soon be over.’
‘I hope so.’
‘Two years ago I heard someone in the Political Consultative Conference say Hu might be released, he would have to make a self-criticism before a mass meeting and admit his guilt and it would all be over, but then we heard nothing more. I suppose you’ve heard about the criticism of Hai Rui Dismissed from Office? All it needs is one article by that scoundrel Yao Wenyuan for a distinguished writer like Wu Han* to end up in trouble.’
It was getting late. I wanted her to stay, but I couldn’t bring myself to say so. I said, ‘I suppose you ought to go?’
‘No, not this time. I’ll stay if I’m welcome.’
We laughed.
‘Do you need to ask? It’s what I’ve been longing for. But won’t your family worry?’
‘I often stay at friends’ houses. I told Old Nie I was coming to see you, he knows where I am.’
We talked all the way from the living room to the bedroom, and continued talking even after lying down. We were two old women, chattering endlessly about things that had happened in the previous 30 years. I had never talked at length with anyone for ten years, especially not about my innermost thoughts and feelings. I talked with her about things I hadn’t mentioned even to my children. In the past, I had known little about her other than what I heard from F. She knew even less about me. That day, I bared all my thoughts to her, all my pain and weakness. I would never again hide away in an impenetrable shell.
When we got up the next morning, we felt relaxed and happy. She went with me to buy some food. I intended to make dumplings, but when she rang home it turned out someone was waiting for her, so she left without eating lunch.
It was not hard to guess that the person waiting for her was probably someone like me hoping for help. She was a warm-hearted woman who would never turn anyone down. One thing she said really touched me. A woman who had got divorced was branded a ‘rightist’ on account of her famous husband and had suffered greatly. Her neighbours had started bullying her, and she no longer wanted to live. When Ying heard about it, she volunteered to visit her every day. This woman had graduated from an elite Christian college and studied in America. How could she grasp this sacrifice by Ying, a country girl? At night, she let Ying sleep on some planks, while she slept on an iron bed. The story upset me, but Ying said, ‘Well, that’s her background. What a tragic life!’
Ying had travelled extensively in China. She had once been a famous militant, but now she was an ordinary cadre, capable and homespun. Ten years before, F had said she was a great woman who had developed into a good writer. If she had really wanted, she could have become an influential politician. But she had never given up her integrity or her honest peasant woman’s heart. Nor had she allowed herself to be defeated by reverses. She continued to sympathise with people whose suffering exceeded hers. She took pleasure in helping, to the point of selflessness.
She left me a telephone number, told me not to worry, and wished me strength.
* Yao Wenyuan was a Chinese literary critic and member of the Gang of Four in China’s Cultural Revolution; Wu Han was a historian and leader of the Democratic League, a non-aligned Third Force in China. In 1965, at the start of the Cultural Revolution, he was denounced for his drama about an upright Ming dynasty official. He died in prison in 1969.
